


Touch

by Cheekbonesandcoatcollar



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-14
Updated: 2012-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-18 16:31:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheekbonesandcoatcollar/pseuds/Cheekbonesandcoatcollar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes when Merlin touches him it is personal, more like the gentle touch of a lover than the efficient work of a servant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

Sometimes, the touches are too intimate for Arthur.

It shouldn’t be this way, it should be innocent and platonic when Merlin’s hands smooth his tunic against his chest, it should be a servant dressing his master. But instead it is Merlin dressing Arthur. It’s personal, more like the gentle touch of a lover than the efficient work of a servant. Arthur shouldn’t be able to feel the heat of Merlin’s hands through his armour, he shouldn’t know instinctively where the clumsy fools fingers are fastening or unfastening his sparring gear, he shouldn’t have to suppress a shudder every time he knows that Merlin’s hands are working his breeches, because it should be platonic, it should be nothing. Except it isn’t, it’s more, it’s Merlin. Arthur wonders if Merlin realises what he is doing. He wonders if Merlin realises just how he affects the prince. The prince dammit! The heir to the throne constantly, privately undone by the nimble, work roughened hands of his manservant.

And it isn’t like its even anything intimate, there is no skin against skin, no removal of clothes, except, of course, what is Merlin’s duty. Yet a mere touch, a hand checking a head for wounds, a gentle application of a salve or an oil after Arthur emerges from a particularly trying train with the knights has the prince shattering beneath his servants ministrations, breaking, coming undone, only to be repaired by the same hands that broke him to begin with. Arthur wonders if Merlin recognises how abruptly he is dismissed in the evenings, how reluctant Arthur is for any closeness. Arthur hopes that if he does then he thinks it because Arthur classes Merlin as below him, Arthur is disgusted by him. It is better this way. It is easier.

Arthur wonders if Merlin can hear his heart beating through his chest when he is close, too damn close because Merlin has never been one to obey orders why would he respect boundaries and personal space too? It is rare that Merlin’s hands touch bare skin, especially lately, now Arthur has decided he is perfectly capable of readying himself for bed, or changing after a warm (never hot because Merlin is just too damn insolent for that) bath. It is rare, but when it happens it is like a hurricane in Arthur’s mind, like there is nothing else in the world but him and Merlin. He long ago stopped berating himself for sounding like such a girl .

He thinks sometimes that when skin does touch skin, Merlin notices too, that maybe he is not imagining the barely noticeable hesitation in the manservant’s movements. When he focuses on Merlin’s reactions it is much easier for him to ignore his own, the goose bumps that rise on the exposed area that he can easily blame on the cool air but knows instead is because of Merlin’s calloused fingers slipping against him. Except Merlin barely reacts but for the aforementioned hesitation, he just continues to blather on about that days topic, the gossip in the kitchens, the arrival of a new lady in the palace, that thing that Morgana did that Gwen told him about. Yapping on as if nothing is happening, when the prince is on fire here, burning beneath his touch, melting under his insistent gaze and he wants to shout at Merlin to touch him some more, to speak to him as a lover would, he wants to cry, “Cant you see? Can you not feel this.” But he knows that silence is the only thing. It is the safer option.

Maybe the hesitation is because Merlin doesn’t want to be touching the prince. Maybe he is disgusted by him. Maybe its easier that way. He knows that Merlin’s hands, and Merlin himself are literally magic. He has seen those hands do wondrous things, seen them fell terrible beasts and sooth burning aches and pains. He has seen them polish armour until it gleams, swing a sword in clumsy strokes, he has seen those hands layered in his own blood, smeared with dirt. He has felt those hands push against his chest when they are play fighting (Arthur’s excuse to touch Merlin in return and not have to answer any questions) he has felt a hand grasp his as he hauls Merlin form the ground in battle. None of these times are enough for Arthur. None of these times are drawn out enough, none of these times allow for him to touch back, to explore, to hold.

He knows that Merlin is not using magic on him, because he felt this way before he knew of his magic, of course he also knows that this doesn’t say for definite that he is not enchanted but this is Merlin. Merlin who has saved him over and over, Merlin who is loyal and strong and stands by him, Merlin whose hands undo him and have to power to ruin or raise Camelot. Merlin.

Arthur knows that it would be wrong to give into the temptations of a man. Especially this man. It happens, he knows, many noble men have been very open about their sexual exploits with other men, nobles and servants alike. But Arthur knows that for him it would be wrong. The prince, who is to produce an heir. The prince who is to lead by example and cannot be seen entertaining young men, especially clumsy, lowly servants. He knows it is almost expected of him to entertain young women, after all, his father once said, a man will be a man. It was not Arthur’s place to tell his father that he had never been inclined to do such a thing, that the only person he had ever imagined being with in that way was Merlin. No, it was definitely not his place to tell his father that. Ever. Arthur knows it is expected and he knows that people believe that it happens, people believe that he has maids in his chambers at night, the prince knows of these rumours, but he does nothing to dispel them, it is better this way. The truth is, Arthur has never been intimate with anybody, has never felt a warm body against his, has never ran his hands over soft skin, kissed soft lips, has never even been able to imagine doing so because every time he does he sees Merlin. So in Arthur’s fantasies, in the place of supple breasts there are hard plains of chest, ribs poking through skin because Merlin is just too damn skinny. Does the boy ever eat? Arthur long ago stopped trying to imagine anything else in these moments because it is always Merlin, everything leads back to Merlin. Merlin and his pale skin, raven hair, overgrown ears and his hands and his lingering touches and his work roughened fingers. Arthur wonders if Merlin is as virginal as he looks, he wonders if Merlin has been touched and touched in return, he wonders if Merlin has felt the love of a woman, or another man and selfishly he finds himself hoping that he hasn’t, not because of some stupid contest but because Merlin is his, his manservant, his.. Fantasy. He knows that does not make it so, that wanting does not mean owning. He knows this is how it has to be, that he will continue to want.

Sometimes, Arthur thinks he can read things in those hands. Sometimes he thinks he hears words in the touches, promises of _One day, one day, one day._ And in those times he has to stop himself from asking if Merlin knows, if Merlin feels this too, because it cannot possibly be in Arthur’s head, he has never been that eloquent or poetic, in those times he has to bite his tongue to stop from asking aloud, “Why not today?”

In the times when it is just the two of them, breakfast, dinner, bed, Arthur constantly finds himself holding back. Pretending, because if he were to be himself then he would surely be touching Merlin, running a hand through his silken hair, he has always imagined it to be silken, exploring with first his hands, then his lips, then his tongue. He would surely be shattering Merlin as Merlin shatters him, breaking him apart then rebuilding him with gentle promises and words. Sometimes, on the rare occasions that Merlin is actually quiet, when he is standing to the side, an omniscient presence in Arthur’s life, Arthur has to stop himself from filling the silence. He has to stop himself from telling Merlin everything. _I know you’re a warlock, Merlin. I know you’ve saved my life. I need you Merlin. I love you Merlin_.

It is when it is silent that he can feel Merlin’s eyes on him, unwavering, burning a hole into the back of his head, reading every inch of him. And Arthur hates it because he wants Merlin to know him, every damn inch, but he knows it cannot happen.

_I love you Merlin._

“What?”

_Oh_. Arthur stutters, he was sure he hadn’t said that aloud.

“Arthur? Did you just-”

“No.” He cuts in before the dreaded question can be asked “No, I didn’t say anything.”

“You did- you said-”

“No. Merlin. I’m sure you haven’t completed your chores today. My armour was dirtied in practice today. Sort it before tomorrow. And I’m sure the horses are-” This time it is Arthur who is cut off and the feeling is so completely alien and welcome and beautiful that Arthur thinks his heart might stop there and then and no medicine from Gaius could help him, also that he probably shouldn't be thinking about Gaius when Merlin’s lips are on his. What? Backtrack! Merlin’s lips are on his, he’s kissing him and now he’s pulling away because Arthur isn't responding, and now he’s apologising and Arthur definitely did not whimper at the loss of contact. But he did pull his servant back to him, “Merlin.”

“Arthur.” And Arthur is surprised to learn that there is nothing different in the way Merlin says his name, its still slightly patronising, but its just the same, Merlin has always said his name this way, with such affection and longing and dare he hope-

“Love you too. Always have.” And there is such truth in Merlin’s eyes that Arthur wonders why he hadn’t just laid it out before, why he hadn’t just told Merlin the first time he had realised himself. They would work it out, the law, heirs, everything.

Because this was Merlin, loyal and true and brave and magical Merlin. Merlin is, “Mine.” Arthur whispered against one of his man servants cheekbones, something he had always admired and craved. He can feel Merlin’s nod, hear his mumbled agreement, and whispered endearments and he is breaking all over again, shattering, melting, dying, but he is being reborn again into something better than Arthur, this time, as those fabled hands explore his body and he is free to return the gesture he is reborn as Arthur and Merlin, _ArthurandMerlin_.

Better.

Stronger.

The stuff of legends.


End file.
